Smoke, Musk, and Evergreen
by loonylovegoodloveshp
Summary: Hermione had never loved any scent more than the smell of smoke, musk, and evergreen. She wished she had stuck to the rules: no questions asked, no strings attatched. Maybe if she had, she would have never remembered her silky pink scarf and his scent.


Disclaimer: Everything but my plot belongs to the wonderful J.K. Rowling.

Hermione was running.

She knew her destination, and was hurrying there to make it in time.

To meet _him_.

Running through the woods, excitement plagued her stomach and chest. It was early dawn, still dark, and a purplish haze shadowed the sky. Hermione couldn't wait any longer, although she knew the risk she was taking. She had also been careful to cast a disillusionment charm, should Harry or Ron check to see if she was still guarding the tent.

Hermione had missed his touch.

Running to the border of the base camp, Hermione ran past the invisible orb that protected the trio's whereabouts, shivering slightly as she went through her own magical enchantments and spells. He would be able to see her now. Coming to a short walk and then to an utter stop, she looked around, surveying the trees. Grass and moss crackled softly underneath her feet, and as she looked around, nearly panting, only to see tall, darkened trees and nature around her, Hermione began to wonder if he was not coming.

"Scabior?" Hermione breathed, and although she was out of range to where Harry or Ron could see or hear her, her instinct still kept her inexplicably wary. She paused for a moment, and listened, hard. There was no sound, absolute silence as a matter of fact, except for her harsh breathing, which caused mist to cloud around her mouth before evaporating like smoke.

Smoke, she remembered. Last time they had been together, he had smelled like smoke and musk, an earthy yet ethereal scent. Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, just one moment, and remembered how it had felt to bury her face in the crook of his neck, her forehead being tickled by his scratchy stubble. At the presence of her memory, Hermione's eyes shot back open on their own accord, for it seemed that they had expected Scabior to be standing before her, tall and rugged, his hair swept up in a loose gather at the back of his neck.

Disappointed to see that he had not appeared, Hermione frowned and began to turn back. It was dangerous outside the dome of her of protective enchantments, and if she stayed out here too long, she knew that it would not be favorable. Scabior was not here, and he wasn't coming. He had always been prompt, and she wasn't stupid enough to just sit out here and wait for him. Hermione heard the message loud and clear.

_He did not want her tonight._

Or so she had thought. Hermione hadn't even taken a step towards the direction of the base camp when she was greeted by a leather clad, muscular arm at her waist and a lovely, velvety voice in her ear.

"Going somewhere, beautiful?" Scabior wondered, and Hermione had to bite her lip to keep her eyes from rolling into the back of her head.

He had come after all, and the idea that he still wanted her after all of this time made Hermione's stomach thrum with butterflies. No, not butterflies.

_Fire_.

With her back against his body, Hermione stood and took in his scent for a moment. Closing her eyes slightly, she let her nostrils fill with the scent of smoke and musk, along with the smell of the woods and evergreen trees. Had he been hiding from her? Turning around in his arms, Hermione looked up at him, and before he could advance on her, lifted up a thin hand and retrieved a sprig of evergreen from his mass of long, tangled curls.

She supposed he had.

With it still in her hand, her fingertips traced his features, running her hand down the length of his stubbly jaw and sharp cheekbones. His lips pursed slightly as he humored her, but as Hermione looked into Scabior's onyx eyes, she immediately saw them darken with lust. She fought the urge to smirk at how badly he wanted her. Hermione wanted to tease him, make him work for his reward, but then she remembered that he was a Snatcher, and that whether she liked it or not, she would be taken by him at _his_ pace.

Hermione opened her mouth to greet him with a witty remark, but apparently the wait had been too long for Scabior, and at the slightest opening of her lips he had managed to stick his tongue into her mouth. Hermione finally allowed her eyes to roll back and close, and as her mouth moved against his, she could barely keep herself standing. Sensing this, Scabior tightened his grip around her, and before Hermione knew it, she was being pressed up rather roughly against a large oak tree.

She didn't really know how they had ended up like this. One minute she had been fighting the Snatchers alongside Harry and Ron, battled too far out and had ended up being cornered by Scabior himself. He had pushed her to the ground, a few nasty words were exchanged, and before she could get on her feet, he was kissing her. Hermione still remembered the words he had told her before he had Apparated.

"_I'll see you again, pretty."_

And see her again he did. Somehow Scabior had called her out of the tent not one week later, somehow controlling her into leaving Harry and Ron and venture out into the cold, dark night to meet him. Hermione had insisted that he leave then or that she would curse him into the high heavens – and he had kissed her then, and she had willingly kissed him back. They had spent the whole night together in the woods, the first of many. He could've been a liar, a cheat; it could've been his mission to bring her to Voldemort –

But he hadn't. Not once had he _ever_ threatened her, and with the pressures of the war and her failed attempt at a relationship with Ron looming over her shoulders, Hermione had given in. She had trusted him. Days had turned into weeks, and now weeks had turned into a solid _month_.

Scabior truly seemed like a fantasy, a thought in the back of her head, a private desire, and every time she saw him, Hermione tried to talk herself into leaving him, into not getting attached.

No strings attached, she would tell herself.

And each time, Hermione failed, and she trusted him even more.

They had never shared anything more than physical attraction. Somewhere in both of their heads, they knew this wouldn't last.

To each other, it seemed, they were both escape tunnels from the strains brought on by war.

For Scabior, a relief from the demanding Dark Lord, and for Hermione, a release from the Golden Trio. A release from always having to be the brains, always having to be a Hero.

See, sometime during their crusade, Hermione had cracked. She had broken herself under the pressures of everyday struggle. She had even wondered if she was mad. A normal person certainly wouldn't be going around with a Snatcher that was supposed to be after her and her friends.

Hermione pulled away from the kiss, looking simply enamored. Scabior smirked. She rested her hands on his chest, and underneath the layers beneath his leather coat, Hermione could feel the faint thump of his heartbeat.

"I thought you weren't coming", she murmured, looking down to trace patterns with her fingernails against his clothing.

Scabior chuckled and his smooth, velvety, yet rough voice sounded like a symphony to Hermione's ears. "And leave you, love? No. I was just playing a little game on you." He lifted her chin with his hand and kissed her again, but this time much more fervently.

"Hiding?" Hermione asked quietly between swift kisses.

"Mmhm."

Scabior looked down at her again and then silenced her, muffling her unvoiced questions with a rough kiss. Her hands flew into his hair and he smiled against her mouth.

They had an unspoken deal.

No questions asked.

Hermione had never bothered to ask him any questions on his personal life, nor had he bothered to ask her. Scabior supposed she had been too afraid to. Quite frankly, he didn't care. All he cared about was getting the lovely girl out of those clothes, and ravishing her until she trembled. Scabior couldn't explain the joy he got hearing Hermione moan and writhe under his touch. It was as if her body awakened under his fingertips with a newfound energy, and every time he saw her, he couldn't control his urge for her.

It had become a _need_ to have Hermione around him since he had first smelled that intoxicating perfume of hers. Scabior hadn't been able to see her then, due to her unbreakable magical charms, but at the first scent of that lovely jasmine perfume, he knew that the girl was completely irresistible. During one night of intense lovemaking, Hermione had confided in him that he hadn't been able to see her because of certain charms that she had put up, but she had seen him. He could've used it to blackmail her – it had crossed his mind, of course it had – but he had never acted upon it. Giving Hermione up to the Dark Lord meant losing the one thing that he found solace in. He had never questioned her further than that; as he had often been too busy attempting to rip her clothes off. After Scabior had succeeded in coaxing Hermione into his grasp, he had even stolen her silky pink scarf, and wore it around on his snatching journeys to remind himself of her. Of Hermione.

Scabior had her, if anything else.

He didn't know how or why he had ended up becoming so infatuated with her. He was nearly midway to his thirties, and Hermione had only just reached the ripe age of eighteen. Sure, she was past the Wizarding Law's consent, but that still didn't explain why he was so invested in her. She was a young, crazy haired, curious, extremely smart _Muggleborn_, and worst of all, one third of the Golden Trio. However, these things seemed to slip Scabior's mind when he was around her. Kissing her seemed to make all of those haunting facts disappear, along with other things…

Hermione was being more courageous this time, and her dainty little hand had reached for the zipper of Scabior's pants before he could even grasp her breasts. He groaned gruffly against her mouth at the contact and felt himself harden even more under her touch. To Hermione's surprise, she was given the opportunity to inhale fresh air as Scabior's mouth left hers and smashed against the sensitive skin of her neck. She sucked in cold hair and whimpered as he bit her.

"I want you." Was all he whispered.

Before Hermione could cry out, Scabior slammed her against the tree, one hand pinning both arms above her head while the other tore at the buttons of her blouse, his lips never leaving her neck as he planted moist love marks there. Hermione's head tilted back against her will, making it easier for Scabior to rip off the blouse and expose her bra. Hermione bit her lip as the area between her legs began to pool with wetness – because her favorite part was up next. Scabior took a step away from the young woman, released her arms, and she lunged.

The first time they had ever been intimate, Scabior had commanded that Hermione undress him, and she had with trembling, nervous fingers. Time and time again she had clumsily unclasped the buttons of his coat, worrying her bottom lip in concentration – but as the month wore on, each time they were together she became more and more skilled. Hermione was a quick learner, and a determined one as well.

She tore at his clothing this time, removing all of his top garments first and reveling in his toned chest and abdomen before crouching slightly to unzip his pants and slide them down. Scabior stopped her then, roughly grabbing her upper arm and bringing her face back to his level. Hermione eyed him for a moment, puzzled. Scabior smirked and brushed away a stray hair that had released itself from her haphazard bun during their frenzied activities.

"You first", he growled before popping open the button of her jeans and sliding down her zipper. Hermione's breaths began to quicken as he lowered himself to his knees, placing his fingers on her stomach. Tantalizingly slow, he began placing soft kisses against the area of her stomach and navel, moving lower and lower as he worked her legs out of her pants. With one leg out of the constricting fabric, Scabior hooked Hermione's thigh over his shoulder, brushing his lips against her inner thigh.

"Scabior…please." Hermione gasped, but he wasn't done yet. Once Scabior had managed to get both of her legs free from her pants, his long fingers pressed into her mound, and as he sniffed her, proceeded to push her underwear aside – as pure and as white as they were – and plunge two fingers into her depths.

"Yes!" Hermione cried out, nearly hissing from pleasure. Her hands flew to his hair, messing it more than it already had been. She attempted to buck her hips against his hand, grind against his fingers, but his other hand held her waist firmly in place. With her bare back pressing into the bark of the large tree, there was nothing she could do and no where she could go. Hermione could only succumb to her selfish lover and enjoy his ministrations, her wand long forgotten – along with his– on the forest floor.

Before she could find release however, Scabior had pulled his fingers out of her slick heat, pressed them to his mouth and let her juices soak into his lips and tongue. He was up on his feet again, but Hermione's leg remained wrapped around him, this time around his waist. Scabior let his mouth return to hers, and Hermione could taste herself on his tongue, something she found extremely raw and passionate, and she focused on the taste as her hands drifted lower and in between their bodies, to find his zipper again. Hermione wasted no time now, and she expertly managed to slip out Scabior's member from its confines.

It was warm and large, she noticed, as she stroked him with a petite hand – and soft as well, like a rod of white hot steel covered in velveteen and silk. Scabior growled, and Hermione smiled against his lips. Her wetness had soaked her panties, and Scabior running a finger over her clothed slit wasn't helping. Even with closed eyes, he had managed to find her sweet little nub within her mound, stroking and tweaking it until he could sense Hermione rising up to the very brink of ecstasy – but then he would stop.

This drove Hermione mad, and Scabior knew it.

But what could she do, pressed up against a tree in the middle of the woods with an older Snatcher? It was he that would be in control of her release, and it made him bloody proud.

Scabior only succumbed to her pleas when he himself could take it no longer. The need to be inside of Hermione had grown into a monstrous necessitate, and they both watched with excitement as he pushed her underwear to the side again and finally entered her. Hermione moaned loudly as he filled her, the pressure adding an extra blow of pleasure. If it hadn't been for all of those spells, she would've surely woken up Harry and Ron with her shouts of bliss. Scabior grunted with gratification as he impaled himself fully within Hermione. She was warm and wet and most of all tight, and as he pulled out and plunged in again, he relished in the feeling.

Hermione hissed, her arms latching onto his neck as he began to thrust into her, her fingers holding onto tresses of his hair. Her body rocked with a newfound force and he plunged harder and deeper into her.

"Oh god, yes, more!" She panted, and her body trembled at the amount of pleasure it was being shown.

Once at a steady rhythm, Hermione began to thrust her hips towards her lover, in perfect unison with his thrusting. He moaned as she did this, and his fingers went down between their bodies to circle around her clit, rubbing it until it swelled. Thorough in his actions, Hermione began to cry out in pleasure again, along with other things, praising him and shouting obscenities that any other person would've been surprised by. After many thrusts by different angles, the two came together, gasping, panting, and moaning, riding out the waves of ecstasy in each other's arms.

Hermione's body was trembling, and the slightly wintry air did not help her. Upon seeing this, Scabior unhooked her leg from around his torso and bent down to retrieve his leather coat. He placed across her, before going on to pick up his other strewn garments. Hermione cut him off however, with a hug, and the jacket slumped and fell off of her body, finding its spot on the floor again. She had never really hugged him before, and as surprising as it was, Scabior also found it pleasant.

They fit, and Hermione's head tucked neatly into the crook of his neck, finding his pulse and resting her lips against it. Scabior paused for a moment before doing a very boyish thing.

He grinned.

Why he had done it, he would never admit to himself – either that or he didn't quite know. He let her rest against him for a few moments before bringing a hand up to her tied up hair and setting it free, petting her as if she were a cat.

"Now, now, pet. I've got to go." Scabior mumbled as his fingers absentmindedly brushed through Hermione's hair.

Greyback would be waking up soon, drunk as usual in the Hog's Head, and he would expect him to be preparing for their next crusade. Hermione stepped back and nodded. She had gotten used to not trying to convince him to stay just a while longer. He never had. Scabior was a grown man, and a Snatcher to boot, and he certainly wasn't going to take orders from a little girl or any young woman. Hermione bit her lips, smiling. Scabior had always reminded her of a stray cat, one whom allowed you to pet and touch him if scraps were near. If not, there really was no other use in coming to you, meowing and purring with candor.

Once they had collected all of their strewn clothes and put them on, Scabior turned to Hermione. She smiled at him with the wistful eyes that she had always failed to hide while attempting to say the usual goodbye, but tonight that didn't suit him. Scabior grabbed her close again, and while he didn't let her embrace him, he kissed her, slowly and smoothly, his cool breath flooding into her mouth. He didn't tell her this – God knows he wouldn't be able to –but he didn't know when he would see her again. Definitely not for the next few weeks, but inside of his head he promised her that he would be back. Scabior's lips quivered against her mouth, and he pulled back with a determined force. Looking into her eyes, filled with such an unfathomable expression, he could tell that Hermione knew. He could feel _it._

Hermione kept her disappointment to herself.

Scabior had never kissed her that way, so slow and gentle. He had never been gentle with her. He had always been in some sort of frenzy with her body – wanting satisfaction and quickly –and Hermione had always let him achieve that. As his lips touched hers, massaged them even, she knew that he was trying to say something that he would never be able to tell with words. Hermione shoved the frown that was threatening to erupt on her face down her throat and swallowed it. She wouldn't let him know that she wanted to make him stay, to glue him to the very spot he stood in –

_But why? _

Why was this affecting her so much? Not once in her life had she ever let disappointing news get to her. But now? One kiss from some raggedy Snatcher and she wanted to bury herself into a hole? It made no sense.

But he wasn't just _any _raggedy Snatcher, was he?

No, he wasn't. He was Scabior, _her _raggedy Snatcher, with _her_ favorite –albeit faded– red streak in his hair, and hers alone, Hermione realized, and the fear that was digging a pit into her stomach was doing so because she realized that she would miss him. And he was so secretive. Even if Hermione asked, he wouldn't alert her on any of his activities. She didn't dare try, though. She wanted to leave this moment the way it was about to end – a peaceful if not disappointing, hopefully temporary, departure from one another.

"Why the long face, darling?" Scabior asked her as he brought her mass of hair to cascade down one side of her neck. But Hermione put on a mask as he touched her and shook her head.

"You don't know what you're saying. Go get some sleep." She stared blankly, and it was almost a demand. Hermione's petite hands curled into fists out of Scabior's view as he chuckled. She had been about to touch the weary, sleep deprived skin beneath his eyes, but she stopped herself short. She wouldn't touch him anymore.

"Love, I'm a bloody _Snatcher_. We don't sleep!" Scabior laughed at her. It unsettled her slightly and he noticed. He leaned in and gave her a soft, stubbly kiss against the forehead.

Hermione wanted to hold on to him, to scream and demand that he not leave her, but of course she didn't. Instead, she stood rigidly, her hands stiffly at her sides like an army cadet, and waited till he was through. After a few long seconds, Scabior stepped back, smiling faintly, and nodded. When Hermione didn't respond and she usually, lovingly did, he began to walk away from her, to find a spot between the trees to Apparate. Before he did, however, he turned to Hermione one last time, his omniscient eyes shining in the darkness farther off. His lips curved upwards, and Hermione couldn't tell if it was a smirk or a genuine grin.

"See you 'round, pretty." Scabior spoke softly, looking her over one last time.

He exhaled, gave Hermione a small wink, and she didn't look on any longer. With her eyes glued to the ground, she listened to Scabior's boots crunch on the earth ahead of her as he walked off. A few moments later, there was a sharp whishing sound, and she knew that he had Apparated.

Hermione closed her eyes.

Scabior was gone, and she didn't know when he was coming back. Facing reality, Hermione opened her eyes and turned to walk back to the trio's camp. Her guarding shift was well over – it had been more than an hour ago, but she knew that Harry would still be asleep, still having nightmares about Horcruxes. As Hermione walked back, leaves crunched underneath her boots and she turned back several times. She didn't know why, but she had expected to see Scabior again, as if it had been some practical joke and he hadn't really gone after all.

_Silly, pretty little thing_, he would say.

Hermione was well within her protective enchantments now, and she didn't bother turning back again. Scabior was back at the Hog's Head now, and even if he wasn't, he wouldn't be able to see her anyways. Hermione paused for a moment, sniffed the air, and then her curls. Smoke, musk and evergreen.

His scent had clung to her.

It wasn't a surprise when she didn't cry, and in fact, she was proud of herself. Since the war had started, with all of the death that surrounded her and her friends, Hermione had learned to build up an emotional tolerance. It would take a lot more to make Hermione Granger cry now than the departure of some scruffy, stealthy Snatcher.

In her opinion, she was doing an alright job of keeping herself detached from an emotional relationship with him. But that didn't mean that she was trying her _best_. The old Hermione would've said that there was definitely room for improvement.

As she disenchanted her delusion twin back into a common teapot and entered the tent, Hermione was greeted by a weary Boy Who Lived, who was holding a large mug of steaming tea between his hands. Hermione hid her surprise, for she hadn't expected Harry to be up. She gripped her wand tightly in her hand. Taking a step farther into the warm room, she cleared her throat.

"Harry?" Hermione croaked, her voice sounding wary. She tried to be rid of the tone as best as she could. "My shift is over. Your turn."

The tired, bespectacled boy looked up at her. Harry smiled wearily, and stood up from his seat. He walked over to her, and just as he was about to pass her, stopped. Hermione didn't look at him until he said her name.

"Hermione?" Harry murmured quietly, and she looked up at him, praying that her eyes weren't shining with something evident. Harry stared at her for a moment, his gaze almost questioning, nearly disbelieving, before shaking his head and taking a gulp of tea.

"Never mind", he muttered. "You just look tired. Get some sleep alright?"

Hermione gave him a small smile and nodded. It had always warmed her heart how considerate Harry was. Another thing about Harry that Hermione appreciated that he didn't ask questions – like why she looked so disheveled, or why her hair had leaves in it. He let her be, even if there was somewhat of a doubt in his mind. Harry had more important things to worry about, for example, defeating Voldemort and saving lives, and those two alone made worrying about Hermione's activities less than feeble on his part. He had the Greater Good to think about.

They parted ways in the living room, Harry to the cold outdoors, and Hermione to bed. Stepping quietly into the small bedroom, she was welcomed by the low snores of Ronald Weasley. It wasn't much of a welcome, really. Kicking off her shoes, Hermione climbed onto her top bunk above the sleeping ginger.

She felt numb.

Laying on her side and facing the wall, rather, the canvas of the tent, Hermione tucked her wand into her sleeve. It was a cautious habit, one that she had adapted since they had first been on the run. Even in the confines of an enchanted tent, and surrounded by the protection of her own spells, Hermione did not feel safe. Strangely enough, she had felt ten times more safe being in the wilderness with Scabior at her side. It wasn't a logical thought, but all the same, it comforted her. Minutes passed by, and soon Hermione had blocked out the snoring in the background by her thoughts.

_He hadn't even told me to stay safe!_, she thought.

Hermione bit her lip. Did Scabior even care about her at all? She blinked rapidly in the darkness.

But she had been missing the point.

Scabior had never promised her _anything_. He had barely ever shown worry for her whereabouts or her well being. When he did, it was short and abrupt. He had never really spoken to her about anything besides her body. No questions asked. No strings attached. She should've learned! Hermione's eyes burned with her newfound admittance of this fact, and she sniffed.

_Wait. _

Taking in another breath, she inhaled deeply. Again and again she repeated this, taking in unnecessary breaths, to make sure that what she was smelling was accurate. And accurate it was. The smell of smoke, musk and evergreen remained on her and around her, ever present in its aura. Hermione's brows furrowed with confusion. How had it clung to her all of this time? She wondered.

In a sense of desperation, she grabbed at her hair, and then at her clothing. The smell had faded from both, but somewhere hidden, it remained as strong as ever. It wasn't until Hermione had shifted slightly that she noticed something tickling her throat. Thinking that it was a stray curl, her fingers went up to her neck to relieve it.

She gasped.

At her neckline, nestled between her blouse and sweater, lay a long, soft piece of fabric. In disbelief, Hermione grabbed at her throat until she had managed to untie it, and slid it around and off of her neck. Holding the fabric out in front of her resting form, Hermione's breath caught in her chest. The smell was overwhelming, as if –

"_Scabior_?" Hermione whispered, so quietly that it was nearly just a breath. _Silly girl_, she thought to herself. _He isn't here._

Flowing in her hands laid her pink scarf, tattered and dirtied, but still, hers. She hadn't seen it in weeks, since she had first met Scabior outside of the tent. He had taken it from her, and she hadn't protested. She had been too afraid too.

Hermione had forgotten about the scarf, with time. There had been other things to worry about than a small stolen scarf. Why had Scabior given it back? And when?

The kiss, she thought almost automatically. He hadn't let her touch him. Somehow, he must have distracted her enough to place it discreetly around her neck. Scabior had always had a way of distracting her. Suddenly, Ron's snores emerged again, and Hermione curled up tightly in her shabby, uncomfortable bed. She brought the scarf towards her chest, hugging it. Hermione sighed, breathing in the scarf so that it could lull her to sleep. It was almost as if Scabior was there, lying in the small bed beside her, protecting her from the cold, the fear, and most importantly the war.

_Almost. _

But he wasn't, and this loomed over Hermione's head like a shadow, almost as if it were an Undesirable sign. Scabior had his own people to please, his own war to fight. Hermione sniffed. He had never promised her a damned thing, and here she was, lonely in her bed, fantasizing of the Snatcher that had taken control of her…her…_everything_. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled, soaking into the scarf. She only held it closer.

_Had she fallen in love with him? _

Hermione didn't know. She had no proof of it, only the ache in her heart and the tears in her eyes. That couldn't possibly represent love, could it? Hermione's eyes fluttered closed, and with the scarf still held tightly in her grip as her body wracked with silent sobs, she realized something.

Scabior _had_ promised her something, albeit small.

He would be back. Hermione didn't know when or how, but as she inhaled his scent of smoke, musk, and evergreen, she knew that he would come back.

_For her. _

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So this is my first Scabior/Hermione fic! What do you guys think? **Reviews and constructive criticism are most welcomed!**


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